The Long Road Home
by Sentimental Star
Summary: Moriarty's Final Problem has been solved. Sherlock returns to London and his doctor three years later, a changed man...EDIT: CH. 3 POSTED "Hollow Men" (Intense Friendshipfic. Familyfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion. Spoilers for BBC Sherlock.)
1. Endgame

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own these fabulous characters or the universe they inhabit.

_**Author's Note:**_ So, I've recently discovered the BBC _Sherlock_ tv series and have absolutely fallen in love with it. With John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes's relationship especially so. Kudos to Moffat and his crew for so openly discussing sexual preference and, at the same time, exploring the depths a friendship between two men can go to (even if my chest does give a rather fierce yank each time I see a screencap from that last Season 2 episode). Hope to see more of it in Season 3—but this is the way I intend to cope in the meantime! Hope you enjoy my first _Sherlock_ fic (even if it isn't Brit-picked)!

_**Rating:**_ T (for language)

_**Summary:**_ Moriarty's Final Problem has been solved. Sherlock returns to London and his doctor three years later, a changed man (Intense Friendshipfic. Familyfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion. Spoilers for BBC Sherlock.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Memories/Personal Thoughts (Italics)**_

_.:The Long Road Home:._

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter One: Endgame_

The front bell chimes at 3AM. Mycroft, normally a notorious insomniac, hauls himself upright under his sheets, sighing tiredly and rubbing his face, trying desperately to ward off the spinning thoughts that immediately greet him upon waking.

It has been three years. Three years of latching on to any scrap of intelligence, any bit of evidence, that he can, in hopes that his younger brother—_finally_—can come home. He doesn't dare hope that the rather insistently ringing bell might mean the Great Hiatus is at last over.

Holmes are notorious for their disdain of sentiment and all it implies, but as an ex-army doctor once so rightly remarked, they are also some of the most _human_ men one could ever hope to meet, despite their frankly formidable intellect. And this _human_ man…misses his younger brother.

Perhaps that is why he should not be so surprised when he opens his door at precisely 3:08AM in the morning on November 28th and finds himself with an armful of weakly muttering little brother:

"Damn, asinine idiot…couldn't you have bloody opened the door a lot _sooner_?"

And if Mycroft Holmes finds his knees buckling, or his baby brother's knees buckling with him, then they _most certainly_ will not chalk it up to _sentiment_.

IOIOIOIOIOI

"You have finished your…endeavors, I presume?"

The coffee is black, two sugars, and both Holmes men steadfastly ignore how it shakes minutely as Mycroft hands the cup to his brother.

A flash of canine glints in the lamplight of the (too) long unused room as the younger man, struggling slightly, pulls himself into an upright position on the bed and accepts the mug. Taking a cautious sip, he murmurs against the ceramic rim, "Nearly."

"Moran?"

An ugly look flashes across the younger, paler face, before its owner schools his features and hums a soft affirmative, "Mmm. Not that he's much of a threat, really."

The (luckily empty) coffee pot Mycroft brought with him clatters onto the nightstand at his elbow with a loud _clang_, "Explain," he bites out crisply.

The younger man rolls his eyes, but canines flash again and Mycroft nearly _shivers_ at the dark, predatory look he is met with, "Didn't you know, Mycroft? _Bitterness_ is a paralytic, _love_ is a much more vicious motivator."

Silence pervades the room. Mycroft slowly raises his hand to press three fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Your doctor, yes?"

The younger man's eyes drop immediately to his coffee cup and he shifts slightly in the bed, pulling an extra blanket close around his shoulders. Mycroft releases a nearly inaudible sigh, "Little brother…"

The other man's head jerks up, a deep, muddled conglomeration of emotions flitting through the currently gray (and inordinately expressive) irises.

All composure is almost lost, and Mycroft sucks in a sharp breath he _knows_ his brother can hear: "_little brother_"… that endearment has not passed his lips in many years.

They stare at each other, engaging in a silent contest of sorts—which abruptly ends when the younger of the two hastily breaks their gaze and ducks his head, a heated flush spreading across his high, angular cheekbones.

Mycroft suddenly does not feel at all inclined to continue his scolding. "I will assume you have permanently incapacitated him in some manner, then," he murmurs.

The other man snorts softly, taking another cautious sip of his coffee, "You are displaying an alarming penchant for stating the obvious tonight, _brother dear_."

Somehow, the retort lacks all the bite it used to have.

This is how they work, the Holmes brothers. They never _say_ anything that might be misconstrued as _sentiment_ or _emotion_, even if their actions speak of nothing but.

All the "_I missed yous_," and the "_thank yous_," and even Mycroft's unspoken "_thank God you're…almost…all right,_" all of them are spoken or implied by actions.

Such as the frown that abruptly creases the younger man's brow as he takes a much more deliberate sip of his coffee. He glances up at Mycroft, faint accusation shining at the back of his exhausted eyes, "Sedatives and painkillers."

Even as he says the words, the half-empty coffee cup slips from his fingers and nearly topples onto the sheets before Mycroft catches and gingerly rights it at the last moment.

This is Mycroft's "_I'm worried about you,_" but the other man is already too far gone to object, eyelids heavy and body slack.

"That should be apparent," Mycroft murmurs, carefully placing the ceramic mug nearby on the nightstand.

A firm hand on the younger's chest, and Mycroft gently pushes him down to lay on the mattress beneath his sheets, "Sleep deprivation, deplorable eating habits (your doctor will not be happy); you cannot support your own weight, so evidence of as yet untreated injuries and dehydration. You have a fever…"

He trails off as his brother (tries to) scowl at him, but as the younger man is more than half-asleep the effect is rather ruined.

As the other man collapses in to sleep, Mycroft spreads the blankets more thoroughly over his shoulders, tucking them close. It is a few minutes before he straightens with a soft huff, resting his hand feather-light against his brother's sallow cheek, "You are an idiot, little brother," he whispers.

IOIOIOIOIOI

It is still early, early morning when the text goes out:

_Come at once, your assistance is required. I have a high-security patient who may be able to relate key information on the sharp decline in London crime rates.—MH_

(International crime rates, as well, but Mycroft keeps the nature of his text deliberately vague.)

Unlike what one might suppose, there is no repeated ringing or frantic pounding at the door some forty-five minutes later. When he opens the door at 4:45AM after the bell chimes, Detective Inspector Lestrade is standing on his front stoop, an eyebrow raised almost to his hairline, "One of your people, then, Mycroft? I thank you from the bottom of my heart for Sebastian Moran alone."

A small smile flickers around the edges of Mycroft's mouth, "Ah, Detective Inspector, thank you for stopping by. Doctor Watson, wonderful to see you again. Do come in."

The smile he quirks the exhausted man over the DI's shoulder as he steps back to admit them has John freezing mid-foyer a full second, trying to deduce any possible meaning from the gesture. Unsurprisingly, he gives it up as a bad job, attributing it to the fact that Mycroft is Mycroft, and that it is best simply to go with it.

"I wish I could say it's a pleasure," the doctor murmurs, removing his coat with a well-concealed wince as his shoulder wound makes itself known.

Mycroft and Lestrade exchange pained glances over his head. The older Holmes brother awkwardly clears his throat, "Yes, well…quite."

John faintly sighs, "You mentioned you had a patient? Honestly, Mycroft, was it necessary to practically _kidnap_ Greg and I? Anthea will not thank you for waking her. Are they truly so important?"

Mycroft's lips compress in a thin line. He knows from experience that a 5AM John is an exhausted and grouchy John, and that if the man had any inkling as to whom lay beyond this foyer, then he _most certainly_ would not have remained.

Instead, he nods to a mystified Lestrade and gestures them in, "You would not _believe_ how important, Doctor Watson," he murmurs.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Mycroft leads them further into the small estate. As he shepherds quite possibly two of the most integral people in his life (in _their _lives) through the darkened hallways of the Holmes's London residence, he quietly muses on the events that led them here:

Had this still been the "game" it started out as over three and a half years ago, Mycroft knows he would not be here—not like this. Having seen the lack of love in their father, and the excess of it around them, he had come to the rather unsatisfactory conclusion that _caring is not an advantage_.

As with so many other things, however, his brother had proven him wrong—by near-singlehandedly dismantling Earth's largest crime ring.

Because he _cared_, both London and the International Community had seen a marked lack of capital crimes—including homicides, arson, and rape. Alone, it is enough to earn his younger brother the Nobel Peace Prize, but Mycroft knows the man will never agree to it.

When they reach their destination, Mycroft stops outside the room, inhaling a particularly deep breath, and leans his shoulder against the wall, keeping his face turned away from the two men behind him.

Immediately, Lestrade steps up to his side. A light touch brushes his shoulder, "Mycroft?"

_Concern_, he tiredly notes.

Nodding vaguely to the DI, Mycroft inhales again and releases it on a deep breath, "John."

Said ex-army doctor immediately snaps to attention, eyes wide. Mycroft nearly expects a "_Sir!_" but John murmurs instead, worriedly, "Mycroft…?"

Another breath. His piercing gray eyes fix on the one man who holds the entire world (_Mycroft's_ entire world, at least) in his hands, "Be gentle with him. He…hasn't taken very good care of himself over the past…three years."

"Three years…?" John asks wonderingly.

Beside him, Mycroft feels Lestrade suck in a sharp breath as he, incredibly, comes to the correct conclusion long before the doctor does.

Scotland Yard's DI glances at him sharply, eyes both demanding and pleading at the same time. Mycroft nods, unobtrusively nudging him in the doctor's direction, "I will be fine, Greg," he murmurs.

Lestrade gives a not-entirely-convinced nod and slips into place just beside John as the man carefully adjusts his grip on the medical kit he carries and quietly cracks open the door.

There is an abrupt cessation of movement as three pairs of eyes settle on the room's occupant:

_Shallow breathing that hitches every few minutes._

_Long legs half-uncovered._

_Lanky, too thin body curled in on itself, clearly in pain._

_Graceful fingers—__**violinist **__fingers—gently gripping the pillow, now tightening, now loosening, as their owner suffers through a bout with dreams._

_Unhealthily pale and pallid cheek, nearly as white as the linens it presses against._

_Long, dark, and delicate eyelashes fluttering with each second spent in REM sleep._

_Limp, tousled black curls strewn across a far too drawn, far too familiar (__**impossibly**__ familiar) face._

The only catch? Their owner is supposed to be _dead_.

"_Jesus Christ_," Lestrade mutters disbelievingly, catching an unconscious John Watson underneath the arm as the doctor's knees abruptly buckle and his legs give way.

_End Chapter_


	2. Three Year Miracle

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own do not own these characters or the universe they inhabit.

_**Reviewers:**_ All _16_ of you, cheers! I appreciate the time you took to review!

_**Author's Note: **_Fresh from a visit to Scotland (and with plenty of inspiration surrounding me), I wrote up this next wee chapter—please enjoy (and apologies if it isn't Brit-picked)!

_**Rating:**_ T (for language)

_**Summary:**_ Moriarty's Final Problem has been solved. Sherlock returns to London and his doctor three years later, a changed man (Intense Friendshipfic. Familyfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion. Spoilers for BBC Sherlock.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Memories/Personal Thoughts (Italics)**_

_.:The Long Road Home:._

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter Two: Three Year Miracle_

Dizzy disorientation greets John when he wakes, head spinning as he struggles to discern where he is and why he is laying down. He pulls up nothing but a blank as he tries to recollect the past few moments leading up to his collapse.

Although they are irritatingly out of reach, part of him nonetheless gives an internal, slightly hysterical giggle, _I've deleted it. I've bloody deleted it. Finally, after all this time I've managed to successfully delete—_

His train of thought stops there, freezes, because it will surely lead him somewhere he _really _does not want to go right now.

"John?"

A nearby chair creaks. Gregory Lestrade's anxious face hovers above him.

Groaning softly, John hazily blinks the man's face into focus, "Greg…wha-what…?"

"You went into shock, mate. Fainted clean away."

"Did I…? What…where are we?"

A throat clears softly across the room before Lestrade can respond.

Both men jerk, immediately snapping their attention to its origins. Although John still struggles to orient himself, Mycroft Holmes seated in an overstuffed armchair goes a long way to providing a solid foundation with which to work from. John shoots upright.

_Shit. Christ. Damn._

…Is currently about as coherent as John's thinking can get right now.

_Bloody __**hell**__! I can't be dreaming. I __**can't**__!_

Too often he had woken from similar dreams and been deceived. Heartbroken. _Terrified-_

"I assure you, you are quite awake," Mycroft's soft pronouncement carries across the room.

John's hands fist so tightly in the sheets and blankets surrounding him that they shake and his knuckles blanch white. His gaze rivets on Mycroft.

"Greg," John's voice is quite calm when he addresses the DI, even if it is terribly quiet, "if I glance next to me, will I find I have finally gone mad? Or does the rapidly swelling bruise on Mycroft's cheek mean you actually _didn't_ get fed up with him?"

Mycroft snorts elegantly, and gingerly probes his swollen (and cut) cheek, "I should certainly hope Gregory is not so barbaric as that," he mutters.

John ignores him, "_Greg_."

Lestrade coughs awkwardly into his fist and shrugs, "I asked him how long he'd known. He said two and a half years."

John swoons. Lestrade leaps forward, worried hand scrabbling for purchase on the doctor's jumper, "_Oy_! Don't black out _now_, mate-!"

_Breathe. In, out, in, out. Hyperventilating over your thought-dead best friend is not going to help matters. That's it—in, out, in, out. You haven't even __**looked**__ at him, yet…!_

A soft groan emerges from the blankets beside the two men: "…Myc…?"

Mycroft abandons his chair so fast that John (with the part of his mind that _hasn't_ completely shut down) isn't sure he's blinked.

The man's fingers clench in the sheets, and John might have laughed at Mycroft's clear desire to give in to such an obviously _sentimental_ reaction as _touching_ his brother—if he weren't battling the increasing desire to punch one or both of them to make sure they understand how bloody blasted _long_ and _painful_ it's been.

" 's upset," the murmur comes from the prone form on the bed next to John. "John's upset. 's my fault."

Blue-gray eyes groggily crack open. John's breathing hitches.

Sherlock is so out of it that he doesn't even register the man's presence. " 's my fault," repeated again, in an insistent mutter.

John tightly shuts his eyes, choking on his own grief and tears.

Mycroft thickly clears his throat, glancing up pointedly at the DI on John's side.

Lestrade, lips compressed in an attempt to quell their trembling, slowly navigates around the bed to stand beside Mycroft.

Sherlock struggles to focus on him, sheer exhaustion proving a rather formidable opponent, "Greg?" muttered in complete confusion.

The Detective Inspector's careful restraint breaks free. The tremor in his lips is obvious now, and translates into his quaking hand as it rests carefully against a pallid cheek, "Sher-_Sherlock_…I…It's…It's good to seeyou…_alive_."

Sherlock blinks rapidly, trying desperately to keep his DI in focus, "Sorry," murmured, "Sorry. Couldn't let it happen. Moriarty…I _couldn't_. 's my-"

"Fault, yes, you said that already, Sherlock," Lestrade whispers. "Don't…don't worry. It's…" the DI has to stop, and quietly clears his throat, "It's all right, Sherlock. It's been taken care of."

Sherlock keeps shaking his head, fighting to sit up, "No," insistent, "no. Need to…_Myc_…"

The beseeching glance at Mycroft is clear as water. John silently slips to his feet, forcing his numbed brain to process and his locked muscles to move. It draws glances from Mycroft and Lestrade both, but he lightly shakes his head and limps around to the side they are on.

Gently, he presses the two men aside, "It's the fever," he explains quietly, certain Mycroft already knows, "it's making him delusional."

Sherlock's expression as John enters his line of vision is quite extraordinary—at once almost painfully bewildered and utterly panicked, "J-John? Wha-what…? _Y-You…You shouldn't be here_! Moriarty-"

"—Is dead, Sherlock," John interrupts quietly, sliding his fingers up to check Sherlock's pulse point as he softly begins to count.

The panic isn't subsiding: "D-Dead? Certain…it's certain?"

John glances up from his watch, slightly nonplussed, "Very certain," he returns quietly. His hand (trembling) slips up to cradle Sherlock's cheek, "We…Th-they found the body."

Slowly, Sherlock's fingers interweave with John's, "You're sure?" asked quietly.

John's scalp prickles under the intent look that fixes on him. Privately (and not for the first time), he wonders what passed between the two men on the roof…That Day. "Yes, Sherlock," he murmurs, voice and breath catching, "yes, I-I saw it. They _all_ saw it. Y-Your name…it's been cleared."

John thinks there might be tears on his cheeks. Certainly, he knows there are tears on Lestrade's, and Mycroft stubbornly keeps his face turned away (although his stance does nothing to hide the tension growing in his shoulders).

Sherlock's bemused frown creases his forehead. The detective's free hand (shaking rather obviously), reaches out to brush tentatively against John's cheek, "You're crying," mumbled uncertainly. "Why are you crying?"

An amazed (slightly hysterical) laugh passes John's lips. This man…"Why am I _crying_? Jesus Christ, Sherlock…you…you're supposed to be _dead_!"

The detective's frown deepens, "But I'm not."

"No, quite obviously you're not," John mutters, shaking as he rests his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "Quite obviously…you're a walking corpse, instead."

Sherlock's frown is severe now, "John, don't be ridiculous, there's no possible way-"

"_You may as well be_!" John's voice is high and tight, and he draws back to glare at his alive-again best friend, blue eyes flashing, "Sherlock, when is the last time you _ate_?"

_Oh_.

Sherlock has the sense to look properly abashed, "Two…two days ago? Maybe?"

"_Sherlock_!"

An exhausted, but nonetheless brilliant smile answers him.

John chokes, and Sherlock reaches up to lightly finger his hair, "_You idiot!_"

IOIOIOIOIOI

Many long hours later, John slumps into a chair at Sherlock's bedside. Scrubbing a tired hand over his face, John leans back into the uncomfortably high-backed chair and silently observes the (finally) slumbering detective.

The past (John checks his watch)…_twelve_ hours have only served to further convince the doctor of what he already knows—Sherlock is an atrocious judge of his own health.

_Two days ago? Hah! If I can count ribs then it's at least been bloody __**four**__. Idiotic, imbecilic ass, what the __**bloody **__**hell**__ have you been up to for the past three years? And why couldn't you have bloody __**told**__ me?_

John's fingers touch Sherlock's now-cool cheek with a feather light brush, then move to check the IV drip line connecting his body with much needed nutrition and hydration. They then slip down to curl gently around the detective's own.

It is not the first time today that John has refused to break contact with his best friend—both Greg and Mycroft have tried to convince the stalwart doctor to at least take a small kip or eat a bit, assuring him they would sit in with Sherlock.

John has refused both, citing the need to be present in case of any possible complications. If Mycroft or Greg sense his underlying reason, neither remark on it.

All three men have entered the mindset of what John (not so) fondly calls "soldiers under siege": exhausted, but high strung, waiting for the slightest twitch, the smallest indication that something in Sherlock's condition has changed. Both Mycroft and Greg have been on-call for work, but have not gone any farther than the front door.

John has not gone any farther than the door to Sherlock's convalescence room (his _bedroom_ is at 221B Baker Street).

Mycroft remarks on it when he leans in the threshold two hours later, dressed in his shirt sleeves with his arms crossed over his chest, "Do you intend to take up residence here, Doctor Watson? Surely I can provide you with more comfortable accommodations."

John steadily meets Mycroft's gaze, eyes determined and clear, "No, thank you, Mycroft," he responds softly, "although you are welcome to join me if you wish."

Mycroft stills in the doorway, inextricably caught—the man looks like he'd happily join him, but it has clearly been many years since he last encountered this type of situation with Sherlock and the urge to gracefully back out is almost as strong.

In the end, Mycroft's thought-to-be-nonexistent-heart wins out. Slipping boneless into a second chair, Sherlock's older brother releases a heavy sigh and rubs his eyes with a thumb and a forefinger.

John glances at him sharply, "Have you eaten or slept at all today, Mycroft?"

Said politician smiles wryly, "Is this a case of do as your physician says, Doctor Watson, and not as they do?"

"Oh," John's cheeks heat, and he gives a surprised, embarrassed laugh, "I guess so."

There is an almost imperceptible easing between the two men. Vaguely startled, John realizes he felt _betrayed_ by Mycroft. Granted, he has quite frequently been in contact with Mycroft over the past…two and half years, actually, but—

_That's odd_, John frowns, distracted by a new train of thought. _It can't be coincidence that he started contracting my medical services not long after he found out that Sherlock was…_

John gulps, blinking back a fresh, stinging wave of tears, and is luckily interrupted by Mycroft: "…I hope you do not think ill of me, John," the older man comments softly. "I did want to tell you."

"This has 'Sherlock' written all over it," John sighs, scrubbing his face and trying to ignore his chest's ache.

His inability to work up more than a dull anger at his best friend should have annoyed John, but said detective is practically comatose at the moment, and he's just spent the past fourteen hours battling Sherlock's failing health.

Mycroft inclines his head, "My brother has been laboring under the erroneous assumption that he is somehow protecting you. I failed to convince him otherwise."

John snorts warmly, smile both wry and fond, "You can't just say 'sorry,' can you? Both of you…you're hopeless."

Mycroft straightens in his seat, holding his shoulders stiffly. "Sometimes, words are inadequate," he responds crisply, lifting his chin and looking anywhere but John.

John laughs softly and reaches out, gently touching the man's elbow. "It's all right, Mycroft. _Really_. I've lived with your brother long enough to understand that."

The politician's shoulders relax. "Good, then," he returns, voiced clipped.

John chuckles again and gives his elbow a friendly squeeze, before turning back to the bed to resume his vigil.

"…You haven't asked me 'why,' yet," Mycroft remarks quietly a few minutes later.

John blinks at him. "'Why' what? Why did he stay away? Why did he…" John's throat tightens and heat swells behind his eyes, but he swallows, "…jump? I do want to know, Mycroft, don't think for a moment that I don't."

Mycroft shrugs, "Either. Both. I am not particular."

John snorts again, thickly, smoothing back Sherlock's damp curls, "What _has_ he been doing, then? He seems rather fixated on the fact that…" John swallows again, "_Moriarty_ is dead. I can only assume it had something to do with him."

An oddly tight, pained smile flits across Mycroft's lips, "You assumed correctly. He has spent the past three years chasing down every last one of Moriarty's operatives…everywhere from London to Prague, to Moscow, Beijing, and Chicago, _destroying_ the man's web and dismantling crime rings clear to Istanbul. He only told me he was alive because he needed a passport and papers for a not-dead man in Milan."

John's throat has nearly closed up completely, "W-Wait…h-he went after…" he chokes, and the hand holding Sherlock's squeezes tightly, "_alone_?"

Mycroft regards him mildly, "Capital criminals and terrorist organizations? Yes. As alone as I would let him, anyway."

John's head spins as he tries to imagine Sherlock—Sherlock of the blunt nature, brilliant mind, and reckless health—spending months alone is places far worse than Italy, with only government operatives who did not _know_ him…and fails utterly.

"You can understand why I am more than happy to see him back in your capable hands," Mycroft remarks softly.

It is a compliment of the highest order from Sherlock's "British Government" of an older brother, but he doesn't even acknowledge it: "You…you contracted my services for a 'high-security patient' two and a half years ago. Was that…?" John's breath hitches, and he can't continue.

Mycroft's lips quirk slightly upwards, "Sherlock is correct, you certainly are clever. It was, John—he owes you his life multiple times over. I believe his words were 'an unpayable debt'-"

"_Don't_," John interrupts hastily, swallowing thickly and screwing his eyes shut. The prescriptions and diagnoses he's written up for Mycroft over the past two years return to haunt him with a startling clarity and his grip on Sherlock's hand tightens rapidly. "_Please_ don't."

Sherlock grips back, just as tight.

His entire train of thought derails and Mycroft's response is lost as a whirlwind of thought and emotion consumes him.

Sherlock is awake, and more coherent than he has been in the past fifteen hours:

"_**John**_…" the detective's voice cracks in three places, "my God, _what are you doing here_?"

_End Chapter_


	3. Hollow Men

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own do not own these characters or the universe they inhabit.

_**Reviewers:**_ All _27_ of you, cheers! I appreciate the time you took to review!

_**Author's Note:**_ It's been a while ::grins::. Work, though, has started in earnest, and at a new school at that! I am glad, however, that I finished this particular chapter—as I am looking forward to bringing this story some semblance of closure. There will be one more chapter—something of an Epilogue—and then my first _BBC Sherlock_ piece will be finished. Please enjoy!

_**Rating:**_ T (for language)

_**Summary:**_ Moriarty's Final Problem has been solved. Sherlock returns to London and his doctor three years later, a changed man (Intense Friendshipfic. Familyfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion. Spoilers for BBC Sherlock.)

"_**Speech"**_

_**Memories/Personal Thoughts (Italics)**_

_.:The Long Road Home:._

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter Three: Hollow Men_

He's dying. That is the only logical explanation (even if it isn't very logical at all, really). Or this is some strange, miasmatic dream he has yet to wake from.

Because John, _his John_, cannot possibly be sitting next to him, clutching his hand, looking as if the world could stop and he wouldn't give a damn.

Somewhere in the vague, back recesses of his mind, Sherlock notes that Mycroft has all but launched himself out the door, doubtless in search of the half-remembered Lestrade. That leaves Sherlock alone with a not-quite-figment-of-his-imagination John (because _dreams_ do not account for actual _touch_), at an utter loss for words.

He will not let himself believe this is real, not until both Mycroft and Greg are here to confirm it, because if he does—if he does…he might well descend into a full-blown panic attack.

John _shouldn't be here_. Moriarty is _gone_, his crime ring and assassins are _gone_; by all rights, John (and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Molly) should be _safe_, but—

John's eyes widen. "Sherlock…Sherlock, calm down! _Calm down_, you bloody great ass! You're hyperventilating!"

Is he really?

_So much for avoiding that panic attack, _he thinks numbly.

Then blond verging on gray obscures his vision, and John's scent—his ruddy _scent_—invades and overwhelms Sherlock's senses.

_You __**can't**__ dream up a __**scent**__!_

That leaves him with only one option (aside from dying or being dead, which he hardly considers a satisfactory conclusion given the way his heart is pounding somewhere in his throat): _John_ is real_. John _is solid_. John_ has _Sherlock_ falling to pieces under his hands because _it is finally __**over**__._

(_Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._)

"_John, John, John,_" the coveted name falls so easily from his lips, a litany that Sherlock keeps up against the doctor's palm as it cradles the detective's face.

As wet warmth sparks at the edges of Sherlock's eyes, John's lips brush repeatedly against the crown of his forehead. It is solid proof that John is, in fact, _here_, and Sherlock presses himself closer, desperate to prevent the not-mirage from vanishing.

Their moment ends when Mycroft, his timing as impeccable as ever, pointedly clears his throat behind them.

Sherlock growls thickly, "_Bugger off_, big brother."

Soft, slightly hysterical laughter bubbles out of John above him, "You're definitely feeling better."

IOIOIOIOIOI

It is the work of a few minutes to untangle John and Sherlock's limbs, as well as to put their minds more or less to rights. As soon as Sherlock is sitting up without aid, Lestrade strides straight through the door and straight _at_ the bed.

Before John can intercede or Sherlock can brace himself for a punch, Gregory Lestrade reaches out and grabs his consulting detective's head. "_Sherlock_. Thank-!"

The rest of the DI's exclamation is lost in Sherlock's hair as he buries his face against it, squeezing the younger man close.

Stunned, Sherlock stares wide-eyed over Lestrade's shoulder at John and Mycroft, utterly unable to process the last few seconds. His hands hang limply at his side, twitching uncertainly before coming up to rest against the Detective Inspector's back.

Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips as he perches on the edge of the mattress closest to their DI.

John, too, smiles knowingly, reaching out to lightly brush back a small curl that has fallen in Sherlock's eyes, "You were missed," stated simply.

Even in that faint movement, Sherlock detects a stray tremor.

"Damn straight," Lestrade mutters, at last sitting back on the mattress and scrubbing irritably at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

(_Crying,_ Sherlock notes uncomfortably, _and not really trying to hide it. Has had a rough year, as evidenced by the wear on his clothes. Missed a spot shaving, so wife gone?_)

He openly stares as his older brother rests a hand on the DI's back.

(_Close proximity, tight brow, eyes frowning, __**touching**__—Myc is __**worried**__…and wants to help?_)

Mycroft has never willingly suffered the touch of another, let alone touched _them_. Even _Sherlock_ has never quite dared to breach that particular boundary without Mycroft's express permission (this morning's return and subsequent display aside). Why, then, is it different with Lestrade?

Perhaps sensing his incredulous stare, Mycroft softly clears his throat: _Explanations later_, his response says.

Before Sherlock can work himself into a magnificent scowl, Lestrade interrupts, "_Where the hell have you been_? What the hell were you _playing at_, pretending to be _dead_?"

(_Tight voice, hoarse—he's __**angry**__…_)

An ice cold lump deposits itself in Sherlock's stomach, and his swallows against another that has clogged his throat.

_You knew this was coming, Sherlock._

"Sherlock?" John's thumb brushes his cheekbone and the detective shuts his eyes against it, willing his ears to hear an _"It's all fine,"_ in John's voice, but there isn't any. Just a desperate plea to know.

(_Please help me understand._)

If it had been Sherlock's choice, he would not have breathed a word until he was ready, until he could bolster himself enough to tread in territory that had always been alien to him.

_But it isn't my choice_, he realizes. _It never really has been._

These two men, patient and loyal and _guilty_ as they feel deserve so much more than a half-true lie.

_It's why I jumped, after all._

The breath Sherlock releases shakes. John's hand curls around to tenderly cup the back of the detective's head and his thumb again brushes the detective's cheek—which, Sherlock is dimly startled to realize, is wet.

He blows out another breath, this one marginally steadier, and opens his eyes to lock them on John's, only the slightest recoil indicating the doctor's surprise, "I baited you. That day in the lab…I baited you. I goaded you into thinking I didn't care, because I didn't want you there when it all fell apart."

"Didn't want…" John's breathing has gone unsteady, and he shut his eyes in horrified comprehension. "Why…What—What did he want? What was so horrible that I couldn't _be _there with you?"

"_He_? John, who the hell-?" Lestrade does not try to be quiet about his confusion, and Sherlock is almost glad for the (premature) break, because it means there is less of a chance that he might suffer a broken nose courtesy of one unwaveringly loyal doctor.

"_Moriarty_," John's voice sounds like a gunshot. "It all comes back to Moriarty, doesn't it? _Doesn't it_, Sherlock?"

Mutely, Sherlock nods, hunching his shoulders against a possible explosion from this all-too-patient man.

Perhaps reading something of Sherlock's unease in the detective's stance, Lestrade tries, "John…"

"_No_," the doctor's eyes flash open, brimmed with tears but refusing to look away from Sherlock's. His hands tightened around the back of the detective's head, both of them holding the younger man in place, "I need an explanation. I need him to tell me why…why couldn't I help you? Why didn't you _trust_ me to help you?"

Sherlock blanches. "_John_, it was never-!"

"Then what was it, Sherlock? _What was it_? Why the hell did 'alone' protect you, when I bloody well couldn't!"

"_Because friends protect people!_"

Were a pin to drop in the silence that follows Sherlock's outburst, none of the men would hear it. The room rings with the impassioned declaration that has sustained Sherlock through every freezing chase, every unexpected abduction, every torturous agony, every hungry night, and every thirsty day.

It takes a moment for it to process in the other men's minds. When it does, Mycroft locks his jaw, glancing away, and (it should be noted) removing his hand from Lestrade's back.

John looks as though he might be sick, implication upon implication starting to coalesce in his mind.

Lestrade simply scowls, faintly irritated and definitely incredulous, "Care to explain that for those of us who don't speak Sherlockian? What _friends_ did you protect by _jumping_, you bloody great tosser? As far as I can tell, you've caused us nothing but _grief_ for no apparent reason!"

Sherlock glances away, shutting his eyes against the heat tearing at the back of his eyelids, unable to bear looking at either Lestrade or Mycroft, and certainly not John. "I know," it is a cracked whisper, a broken plea, "_I'm sorry_. I had to do it, don't you see? And I am _so, so sorry_. I owe you—all of you—a thousand apologies."

"Well…" had Sherlock bothered to look, he might have noticed embarrassment and frustration both flash across Lestrade's face. The DI's voice tries for gruff, and doesn't really make it, " 'Least we're on the same page."

An uncomfortable silence grows, heavy between all four men. Even Mycroft only knows the bare bone details of why Sherlock jumped, and the consulting detective himself does not seem particularly eager or willing to volunteer information.

He does eventually break the silence, though, driven by his desire for closure of an affair that has taken far longer and been far messier than he has ever wished. "If I had had the choice I would have been home much sooner, but I…there was no way I could leave it undone, leave it unfinished. Far too much-" his breath catches in his throat, "far, _far_ too much was at stake."

"Such as…?" the prompt from Lestrade is gentle, and rather more patient than his earlier outbursts had been.

With a small, bitter smile, Sherlock wonders if he has started taking notes. The consulting detective has never bothered about society's opinions, but of the very few people close to him…"How does the world sound, Detective Inspector?" At Lestrade's sharp inhale, Sherlock sighs quietly and hunches in on himself, "_My _world, anyway."

It is a scarce murmur, and when he finally gathers the nerve to look behind him, he finds Lestrade blinking owlishly at him, trying to translate that response into something he can understand.

The glance the Detective Inspector darts at John a moment later is swift and discreet. Sherlock grimaces and stares down at his hands.

_I really __**have**__ underestimated him all these years._

He can only pray John catches it, too, as he does not think he will ever have the ability to voice this very personal hurt.

A callused hand brushes his cheek. Sherlock stiffens as he realizes it belongs to John.

_Did he…?_

"Sher-_Sherlock_," John's voice cracks. "Look—Look at me a moment, yeah?"

A deep breath and the detective steels his spine and glances up, face guarded.

"Just—Just tell me, did he...threaten you with something?"

Sherlock smiles tightly, "Nothing was ever a _threat_ with Moriarty, John. It was always a promise."

"Promise, then," the detective's response has done nothing to ease the horror gradually growing in the doctor's eyes. John swallows, "What was it?"

_I know you can be an idiot sometimes, John, but surely you are not that big of one._

Nonetheless, Sherlock draws his knees up and encircles them with his arms, claiming John's shoulder as a headrest. His doctor, after a moment's shocked hesitation, carefully encompasses Sherlock with an arm. Vaguely, Sherlock also senses Lestrade's hand on his back and allows himself a swallow before continuing, "…There were gunmen. Three of them. Three assassins…and three targets. Moriarty assigned a sniper to each one, and they were, unless otherwise called off, to shoot."

The epiphany, when it comes, hits all three men simultaneously:

"He framed you," Lestrade whispers, absolute dismay stealing across his features. "He framed you, and to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion…he forced you to jump. _That _was their signal to back off."

"Sound deduction, Detective Inspector," Sherlock murmurs into John's shoulder with a faint smile, but is rather distracted by his doctor's trembling.

Lestrade merely shakes his head over and over, clearly unable to process the horror of facing such a decision.

"Who was Moran's target?" the DI's voice is barely audible, but he almost certainly knows that this is the cause of said ex-military man's current half-paralyzed, completely comatose state.

In response, Sherlock tightly shuts his eyes—this is one piece of information he would have very much preferred to avoid supplying, "…John's."

Above him, there is a sharp, sucking inhale of breath against his forehead and a broken sob.

"And the other two targets?" Lestrade manages, looking as if he very much wished never to find out.

_He knows. He __**knows**__. He __**has **__to know._

Lifting his head as much as John would allow, Sherlock gazes uncertainly over his shoulder, "Mrs. Hudson…"

Lestrade tips a nod his way, clearly unsurprised and having anticipated that particular answer already.

"…And you."

Looking unequivocally stunned, Gregory Lestrade rocks back on his heels.

"Bloody-! _Me_? What…_why_-?"

An inelegant snort from Mycroft, a mere raised eyebrow from Sherlock, and the DI colors quite fiercely red. Dazed, he sits down hard on the edge of the mattress, voice hardly a murmur, "Start—Start at the beginning, Sherlock, and leave nothing out."

IOIOIOIOIOI

Silence pervades Sherlock's room after his story is through. A moment later, it is broken by John's rasping whisper: "You imbecilic, idiotic, _moronic_-_"_

Mycroft's clearing throat interrupts the doctor mid-rant, "Whilst I do not disagree with your assessment, Doctor Watson, perhaps it would be best to, ah-"

"_Sod_ the fuck _off_, Mycroft! I will call him whatever I _damn well _please!"

While Mycroft looks absolutely _miffed_, and Lestrade torn between laughing, and outright gaping, Sherlock merely accepts the ire directed at him with quiet grace: "I will never apologize for saving you, John," he murmurs.

"Sodding-! I'm not _asking_ you to _apologize_, you bloody git!" John pushes himself roughly out of Sherlock's arms, glaring with all the fury of three years' heartbreak.

"Then what-"

"You're such a bloody _liar_, Sherlock," John remarks tightly.

That hurts. "I'm not _lying_, John."

"I _know_ that!"

An ache blossoms underneath Sherlock's ribs and he scowls in an attempt to cover it, "Then why-?"

"You told me once that heroes don't exist, that caring never saved _anyone_…!"

"It _doesn't_-"

"_You're living bloody proof that it does!_ You brilliant, beautiful, _bloody impossible _man!"

Sherlock has _no idea_ how to react to that. He expects anger—anger he can deal with. He expects tears—tears he can soothe. He is no stranger to compliments from John (even so, they still manage to fluster him).

This, though…this reaction has gratitude and anger and shame all tied up within it. "_John_?" Sherlock asks tightly, frantic to reassure himself that he _hasn't_ just irrevocably damaged the most precious gift he has ever been given.

Sherlock can see the full extent of it now—the tears streaming down his doctor's cheeks; the sobs and tremors tearing through John's small, compact body. Three years of grief and loss and aching regret finally finding an outlet.

"I will never be able to repay this, Sherlock," John whispers.

The detective finds himself fighting desperately against an almost unbearable urge to laugh—uproariously, hysterically, and not a little disbelievingly. _John_ unable to repay _him_?

"You fantastic idiot," Sherlock chokes out, all tears and hardly intelligible words. His hands grab John's head and crush their foreheads together, "This doesn't even _remotely_ cover everything you have already given me."

_End Chapter_


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